What Happens After New York

Introduction

Travel was a luxury even before Covid19 but now perhaps more than ever I find myself looking back on past adventures, past lives and the freedom of youth.  In 2010 I travelled around the world alone, I documented the journey in a journal.  The journal turned into more of an autobiography of a man no one knows, with observations on the world and numerous scrapes and complaints.  Maybe now that no one can undertake this kind of journey, at least until the current global pandemic is over, you might enjoy re-living the trip with me?  I completed the following sections of this introduction a few weeks after my return, the file containing this journal has sat on my hard drive for over 10 years.  

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After New York the mediocrity of reality closed in like the English weather and showered me with reminders of why I was so keen to leave, now I am soaked with regret. I do not regret the episode of my life documented here, although I am furious with envy for my former self and consumed by fantasies of what might have been had I chosen to do those things I should have done. What I regret is not having built a life or fashioned the fortune that might have seen me living a life of my choosing rather than following the well-worn path of the underachiever, the nobody, the aimless optimist destined to struggle as a result of the curse created by assumptions that life would simply unfold favourably and bring riches and notoriety. This wealth and success has lived in my fantasies for as long as I can recall, I, like everyone I assume, have always felt unique, special, perhaps gifted and now as the obvious truth falls into place I feel not only naïve but foolish shame and remorse. Each of us, I'm sure, create versions of ourselves that exist in our fantasies and aspirations, it is unlikely, without help from the lottery, that any of theseversions would come to life, but for me, for a brief period of my life, I moved from the mundane into my dreams. I lived in a world I had long given up aspiring to, my eyes were opened to an existence so much greater than my own that having returned home I feel lost and alone.

I travelled alone around the world, it sounds grander than it was as much of this circumnavigation was done on long-haul flights and the entire trip spanned a far shorter period of time than I imply when boasting to people I meet back in my real life, but the impact of this journey on my existence has been profound. I had not attempted to document my thoughts before this journey, I had written songs and pointless ponder but never any substantial account of my mind. Turning thirty years old on this trip and feeling like my best days were behind me, I decided to write about my journey in a travelogue, for future reference and also as a mechanism for self-discovery. Upon my return I was elated with the results and proud of the adventure I had undertaken, I decided to send what I had written to a small number of publishers to see if perhaps any enjoyment or interest could be had by other people reading about me, this journey, my life and views on the world. I selected just five publishers I found online and e-mailed them with this book, three send a polite reply notifying methat they only published reference books, one replied notifying me that they only publish cookery books but wished me well, I clearly didn't do a very good job in finding these publishers, the final reply though sent me into despair. It had not been my intention to make money or to gain the much sort after notoriety I have mentioned, I simply wanted to know if my words, and therefore maybe my existence, were of any interest to anyone but me. I made no apologies for my poor grammar and punctuation, I am no writer, I am just a painfully ordinary person who was submitting his life for review, none of this was taken into account by the man responding tomy final e-mail. I had somehow managed to send an e-mail to a predominantly right wing publisher in West Virginia, USA, who responded with a somewhat angry suggestion that I ought tofamiliarise myself with the type of books that sell, there is no money in travelogues he stated. He went on to say that he had read the first few lines of my book and that what I had written within these 'first few lines' had failed to grab his attention and so it was unlikely that I would make much money from what I had done and therefore there was little point in me pursuing any attempt to have my work published.

The file containing this proud account of my travels and the story of my life was to be returned to its home on the hard drive of my much travelled laptop destined to acquire virtual dust until perhaps rediscovered by a far senior version of myself. Now, with great debts and increasing disillusionment I make one final bid to have someone, anyone, evenjust one person read what I have written. This is for my ego alone, my pockets no longer carry delusions of entitlement. I feel it necessary to have written this new introduction in the hope that anyone discovering this file might read beyond the first few lines. I ask not for you to read this out of pity or a sense of requirement if perhaps you are a friend that I have given this to, I would like you to know that this is more than a travelogue, this is my manifesto and life story, i might be incredibly dull or profoundly brilliant, I expect that neither is true but I would ask you if nothing more, please read beyond the first few lines.